


FORSWORN & SILVER

by pampersand



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Main Character Isn't Dovahkiin, Original Character(s), Original Dunmer Character(s) - Freeform, Other, the forsworn were right i hate you todd, this is barely even fanfic at this point tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:21:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pampersand/pseuds/pampersand
Summary: this fic follows a dark elf named Vedaryn as they wander into Markarth, become involved in the Forsworn cause, and eventually liberate the reach. they aren't the dragonborn, but will meet them.
Kudos: 2





	1. I. BLOOD AND SILVER

“The job was about as about as complex as they come, which was why it fell to me. My employers weren’t happy with the direction of the war in Skyrim, so I was sent with a vial of Disguise-Self, a sniper’s bow, and orders to wound or kill the Jarl of Whiterun while being seen as a Nord in Stormcloak’s armor. Furthermore, while I had to be seen, I couldn’t be caught, because Disguise-Self doesn’t last nearly long enough to get me to the execution block.”  
“By the Eight, that was _you_?” my new drinking buddy asks.  
“Yes,” I say, ears swiveling back in distaste. “Please don’t interrupt. I succeeded, as you know, but escaping was a… _process_ that involved me killing almost all the guards of Whiterun. Furthermore, I had a breakdown somewhere along the way and no longer feel quite comfortable with the killing business, so I can’t exactly return to my employer. Nor would I want to, anyway — this is a golden opportunity to escape them. So I ask you again: what’s the best part of Skyrim to hide from… uh…”  
“Well, you’ve already found her,” Eltrys says. “Markarth is only a part of Skyrim if you ask the Jarl, who hardly anyone regards, anyway. And it’s so violent and bloody, even an old Aldmeri assassin can live out their days here and never fear the Dominion.”  
“I never said that,” I protest.  
“It’d help the conversation if you’d admit it,” he says.  
“It would, but it sounds bad,” I say.  
“So tell me,” he says, offering another mead, “how’d you end up here?”  
I blink and glance up at the statue of the formidable Nord staring at us, wondering if he disapproves of Eltrys’s offer. “I meant to ask — is that allowed at a shrine?”  
“At Talos’s? Sure.” He uncorks his own and says, “I don’t think a Nord god would want any less. Besides, you can drink here without the guards listening. Same reason I told you to meet me here.”  
I sigh and lean back against the stone. “Well, to be honest, in my post breakdown state I wasn’t thinking. I just wandered where it felt right, and I ended up here. Feels kinda foolish.”  
“You kidding?” I shake my head. “Well, that makes you practically family! We have a saying in Breton that translates to, those who belong here, belong here. It wasn’t an accident, Vedaryn.”  
It’s embarrassing and gratifying all at the same time. “Well, thank you. Uh, what did you want to talk about?”  
“Oh, right!” Another swig. “So, the unfortunate thing about your new family is we’re a mess. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”  
I sigh. “You want me to find the reason.”  
"This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.”  
It’s not the worst offer I’ve ever been given. The Aldmeri might have paid handsomely, but I wasn’t exactly family. No Dark Elf can be. “Fine, fine. What have you found looking into the murders yourself?”  
"Not much. It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far, and then I got married. Have a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me. Asking me _why_?”  
What a font of information.

***

My first stop is the inn, which I figure is a good place to find information about anyone, dead or alive.  
It’s stony and silent, how I like a place. Nords nearly outnumber Bretons, and they all turn away from me in distaste, which I’ve gotten used to. The Bretons smile.  
It’s patently impossible that they consider me family for the same reasons as Eltrys. Perhaps they’re just a friendly people.  
In any event, the dead woman was a Nord, so I doubt that the friendly ones will be any help. Instead I walk up to the innkeeper and ask, “What do you have on the menu?”  
She’s a Breton, too. “Depends. What do you want, elf?”  
“Could do with a bowl of information.” I cringe: not exactly my strongest effort there. “Did Margaret stay here?”  
She turns around and sizes me up, trying to decide why I’m asking. Ultimately she decides she doesn’t care and says, “Sure. What’s it to you?”  
“Can I rent her room?”  
“Sorry, no can do. The guards want to look at it later for evidence.”  
I set a small pouch of the Nord currency on the bar. She eyes it before I ask, “No need to rent it. Just tell me which it is, and turn a blind eye for a few minutes.”  
She takes the pouch and turns away. “Second room on the left.”  
No need to thank her. I stride away, keeping my footfalls quiet, though I realize it isn’t entirely necessary. It’s just fun to act a thief.  
The room is disappointingly easy to lockpick, and once I’m in I see a journal on her bedside table.

> Meeting at the Treasury House later today. Took them long enough. These people act like they own everything.  
>  Thonar Silver-Blood is the younger brother, but he's obviously the one in charge. Makes all the deals, bullies local landowners into selling to him. Even employs that wispy girl at the door to deter "trouble-makers" like me.  
>  General Tullius is growing impatient, but I'll bring back the deed to Cidhna Mine. On my life, I won't allow a group of Stormcloak sympathizers to own the prison to the most notorious criminals of the Reach. They say no one escapes. Why? Is it really that secure?  
>  Maybe I've played my hand too soon by rushing the confrontation with Thonar. There are shadows around every corner in this city, and I know I'm being watched.

I squint, trying to remember the name Tullius. I know it was a part of my briefing before I was sent to this wretched place, but who he is escapes me.  
It doesn’t matter, I decide, pocketing the book. He’s just a random Imperial.  
As soon as I get out the door, there’s a guard, and I assume the relaxed position of a patron. “Hello,” I offer him in a cadence loaned from the Nords.  
He skips past pleasantries. “You need to stop poking your nose where it don’t belong,” the guard snarls. “Stop now before it’s too late.”  
I want to flex my guard-killing resume, but it seems like a poor idea. “Of course, officer.”

***

The next stop is a disgusting pit under the city. It’s where the killer lived, which feels typical. Any assassin sloppy enough to kill in broad daylight deserves…  
My blood gets cold reminding me of my own attempt in Whiterun. Then I laugh a bit at myself.  
As I step over a dead skeever and walk toward Weylin’s room, I wonder if our purposes were rather similar. Having guessed it took some of the fun out of reading a mysterious note demanding he strike fear in the hearts of the Nords for the sake of the Forsworn, signed by an N.  
I guess I can’t disagree with that in intent. The only variable left to me is why Margaret was targeted, but it could have been completely random. Not everything means something.

***

After seeing the note, I got desperately curious about who wrote it. I haven’t been that excited about anything in so long that I decided to pursue it. Unfortunately I was fresh out of leads, with my only option being backtracking to Margaret’s journal and the mention of the mysterious Thonar. I’m at his house now, trying to interrogate him.  
“He doesn’t want to be disturbed,” his maid says.  
I sigh, hand her a pouch like the one I distributed at the inn, and walk in without waiting for her response. “Thonar Silver-blood, I have questions for you.”  
“Didn’t Rhiada tell you?” he says, not looking up. “I’m not accepting visits at the moment.”  
“Tough shit,” I say. “I want answers about Margaret and the Forsworn’s role in her death.”  
The glance he gives me isn’t at all what I was expecting. Usually such a thing would provoke surprise or fear, but instead…  
It seems like he was expecting me.  
Outside there’s the great clamor of a fight, and he jumps up and shoves past me. I lurk behind him, hand on my sword, silently assuming he’ll attack me any second.  
… There’s Forsworn here.  
It looks like it wasn’t much of a fight after all. They fired two arrows, one at a noblewoman and one at the poor maid. We make a terse eye contact with the assailants, and they scamper off.  
To my great surprise, Thonar doesn’t make any attempt to follow them. Instead he kneels down next to the dead noblewoman, and murmurs, “Oh Bertrid, I’m sorry, my love…”  
Being corrupt ain’t always a winning bet, I guess.  
“Will you talk now?” I ask, halfway hopeful.  
He twists back around at me, irate. “Fine? You want to know who the Forsworn really are?”  
“Well, obviously.”  
“They’re my puppets. I have their ‘king’ rotting in Cidhna Mine. He was supposed to keep them under control.”  
Excellent puppeteering there. “I don’t understand.”  
“When their uprising was crushed, I had Madanach brought to me. He was a wild animal, but a useful one. I offered him a stay from execution if he used his influence to deal with any annoyances that came up. Competitors, agents, idiots. So I've let him run his little Forsworn rebellion from inside Cidhna Mine. Now he's out of control.” He returns to his dead wife and says, “Now leave me alone with my agony, would you?”

***

“I spent a few hours after her death trying to find Eltrys, because I wanted to ask how Bretons feel about this civil war business, but I had no luck. After returning to the inn and hearing some talk of a Nepos the Nose, I set out again to finish this. On my way, I was interrupted by a guard. He threatened me, quite unconvincingly. You sent him, didn’t you?”  
“Ah, yes. You've proven to be a real bloodhound. Well, you've sniffed me out. I've been playing this game for almost 20 years. Sending the young to their deaths. All in the name of the Forsworn. And I'm tired. So tired.”  
I blink, surprised at his honesty. “Why did you?”  
"Because my king told me to. Madanach. When the uprising fell at the hands of the Nords, they threw him in the mines. I don't know how, but he lives. I get his messages, and I hand out his orders without question.”  
“People keep mentioning this uprising. What was it?”  
“Markarth and the Reach are our lands. That is why we are the Forsworn. We cannot claim the home that is rightly ours. But then during their war with the elves, we had our moment. We drove the Nords out of the Reach in a great uprising. Then Ulfric and his men came. Those of us who didn't run were executed, except for myself, my king, and a handful of others.”  
My heart winces. I’ve experienced nothing like it, but we have the same enemy. The Stormcloak Nords. “Why are you telling me all this?”  
"My dear boy, what makes you think you're getting out of here alive? You were seen coming in. Everyone in here is a Forsworn agent. You aren't the first one to have gotten this far. You won't be the last.”  
My blood runs cold, and I look up to see the maids advancing at me. I grab my sword, almost too late to defend.  
They had the element of surprise, but not of swordcraft. Slaughtering them is easy, as much as I don’t want to, which leaves me and Nepos.  
“Now you’ve become a first,” he says.  
“For surviving?”  
“For killing me,” Nepos says, bowing his head.  
It’s not such an unusual thing for an assassin to see people trying to act noble about their fates. It is strange for me to not want to. “No, Nepos. I cannot.”  
“Why’s that, my boy?”  
“I do not kill unless I need to,” I say, which is the first time I’ve ever made such a declaration. “And I agree with you, Nepos. I rue having killed fighters for the Reach, and I will not worsen my mistake.”  
It’s a rare moment of genuineness that makes my breath feel strange, like my lungs are all caught on my ribs. So, without furthering it, I walk out.  
I want to meet Eltrys again and ask questions. My investigation is nearly complete, except for a few things, and a few points of curiosity. As I meander toward Talos’s Shrine, I wonder if Eltrys would sympathize with the Forsworn if not for his father, and why they killed him, anyway.  
But when I swing open the door, I see him dead on the ground.  
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” the guard standing over his body grumbles. “A lot of work.” He glances down at poor Eltrys and says, “Luckily, you won’t be causing trouble any more. You’ll be blamed for all the murders, including this Breton, and go down to Cidhna Mine. You’re never going to see the light of day again.”  
He’s flanked by five other guards, and though I suppose I could take them, I doubt it’d do any good. I sigh and present him my wrists.  
“Now, that’s a good criminal,” he grumbles, tying my wrists.


	2. II. NO ONE ESCAPES CIDHNA MINE

I’ve seen the insides of a lot of mines, but Cidhna is rather unlike any of them. Its most obvious difference is being a mine, and the second is being full of innocents or insurrectionaries, in equal measure. It seems obvious to me that this is a place of free labor, not a jail, which makes my blood simmer.

I’m not in the mood to work, though. After talking to all the prisoners, I go through a convoluted series of motions to get a shiv for the guard to Madanach’s door. I could have just used a conjured sword, but it would have caused an awful ruckus, which I hate. 

He’s not at all what I expected, which was an old, sad man stripped of his dignity. Instead, his shoulders are still stiff, and he’s relatively clean. At the moment, he’s sitting and writing, presumably to Nepos or Thonar.

“There’s been a lot of talk about you, Vedaryn,” Madanach says. “I must thank you for sparing my friend.”

“How do you know that?”

“Thonar told me.” Madanach turns to me with a smile and says, “He’s less than happy about your other accomplishments, though truth be told, they made me smile.”

“I didn’t kill his wife,” I protest.

“Hm. It sounded very different in the letter.” He clears his throat and says, “But it doesn’t matter, does it? The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?”

“Don’t act blameless,” I say, blood pricking remembering dead Eltrys and Eltrys’s dead father. “You have a lot to answer for.”

"Do I? And what about you? What right did you have to meddle in my affairs? Kill my people? Was it worth it? Your truth? You're one of us now, you see? A slave. The boot of the Nord stepping on your throat. Maybe if you understood that, I could help you.”

I almost bite my tongue, then decide he deserves to have it lash out. “I understand plenty well, Madanach. I’ve been under the Aldmeri boot my entire life, forced to offer them my skills so they could try and win their insidiously pure empire across Tamriel. We may not have the same history, you and me, but the Bretons did not invent being oppressed. Let me help you, and we can both make it out of here.”

He looks up at me, plainly shocked. “That was an excellent speech, young Vedaryn. Almost Forsworn, if you ask me.” He pulls at his beard and says, “There’s a shaft in this hall that leads to some dwarven ruins, if my intel is to be believed. Go get a lockpick for the door protecting it, and I will gather my men.” 

I head out and perform another series of side quests to get the shiv before returning to see some dozen Forsworn agents lounging around. 

“You may be calling too much attention to our jailbreak,” I say. 

***

The tunnel leads to a Dwemer ruin, which we dash through with the glee of children. It isn’t my first jailbreak by far, but it is the first one where I felt like I was flying.

At the end, when we reemerge in Markarth, Madanach turns to me. 

“The Forsworn thank you,” he says. Then, after a short pause, he asks, “Under the Aldmeri boot, eh?” I nod. “You know, Vedaryn, this place is far away from them. Tucked away in the mountains, it’s further.”

“Is that a job offer?”

We’re approached by another Forsworn, a man who leaps up to give Madanach a big hug. Then he turns to me and says, “I thank you.”

“Oh, so you’re the Forsworn.” The joke falls on deaf ears, and I try again. “Uh, yeah, no problem.”

“Listsic has a gift for you,” Madanach says, voice low and rumbling. “Go on, show him.”

Listsic pulls a set of armor out of his pack. It’s typical Forsworn armor, but tougher, and with the incandescent shimmer of enchantment.

“It’s yours, if you want it,” Madanach says. “The Armor of the Old Gods. And, of course, I extend an offer to help us in our fight.”

“An offer?” I ask with a little smile. “Or are you asking?”

“A bit of both. It’s mutually beneficial. Someone of your skills would be an asset to us, and we provide a place for you. No one can run forever.”

“I never said I was running,” I protest.

“You didn’t have to,” Madnach says, beginning to stride away. “It’s obvious in how you carry yourself.” Calling back to me, he says, “Are you coming or not?”

I quickly shove the gear in my own pack and scurry after him. As is habit I keep my steps light, even though I don’t need to. “So, tell me. Were you a thief?” 

I shake my head. “An assassin.”

“Ah, not so different.” We finally emerge from the shadows, and he closes his eyes for a moment, drinking in the warmth of the sun. “And the Aldmeri were your employer?”

“Aye.”

“I understand why you’d want to escape, then.” He keeps walking then, with surprising boldness from a just-escaped criminal. I suppose, based on everything I’ve learned about his political power, it shouldn’t come as a particular surprise. 

We continue our leisurely stroll through the stone city, and if I had a particularly short memory span, I’d have been able to mistake it for a quick run to the market for apples. All that ends when I hear a familiar voice bellow, “Madanach!” 

We both turn to see Thonar on the street above, shoulders hunched forward in anger. I squint at him for a moment, trying to remember what role in my jumbled investigation he played.

Right — he was the puppetmaster. Helped Madanach run the rebellion from inside. Clearly not a Forsworn himself, though. “You’ll need a new King in Rags, Thonar!” Madanach yells back.

“You won’t get out of those gates alive, you old fool!” Thonar snarls back. “I own this city. I own you, I own the Forsworn, I own the Jarl!”

I turn to Listsic, the magic armor fairy, and ask, “Do you have a bow and arrow?”

He nods and hastens to produce one, a beautifully crafted ebony bow with an accompanying arrow. He tries to offer me more, but before the words have left his mouth, my arrow’s found its mark. Startled he mumbles, “Oh, nevermind.”

“Not bad, young elf,” Madanach says, his voice husky. We stand and watch Thonar twitch on the cold stone for a bit. “At least now he can join his wife in Sovngarde, eh?”

I nod, and we continue. He seems chipper, and near where Margaret died, he starts to hum. 

We stand at the gates for a moment before he turns to Listsic and asks, “And are there horses ready?”

“Well, no, sir. We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Then how were you ready?” I ask him.

“There’s always agents in Markarth at the ready,” Listsic says with a shrug. 

“It’s no matter,” Madanach says. “Cedran’s an old friend.” With an unearned confidence he strides toward a pinto stallion, grabs a handful of mane, and pulls himself astride. “Join me, Vedaryn.” 

“Even old friends aren’t fans of horse-stealing,” Listic grumbles.

“We’ll return them, of course,” Madanach says as I pick my mount. “I only steal from Nords.”

***

The horses’ gallop isn’t particularly fast — it’s clear we’re riding work horses — which provides me a sweeping scene of the Reach as we ride toward the base. 

It’s soul-achingly rugged country. I have to admit, the gnarled juniper bushes and the jagged outcrops of rock sticking out from the earth like broken bone cutting through skin make for a beautiful scene, in its own way. The crystalline river enhances it.

Finally we reach a camp by the side of the river, and Madanach dismounts. “Welcome to Druadach Redoubt, center of operations.” 

***

I’m given my own room, with a deerskin cot and an old wooden dresser. It’s not the prettiest of accomodations, but I’m somewhat touched by it. I’ve been in gorgeous hotels all across Tamriel, all arranged by my previous employer, but never did I feel comfortable at them.

Slowly, I undress. I’m covered in still-oozing scratches from the past forty-eight hours, and they stick to my clothes as I try to peel them off. When I finally force them away from my skin, there’s spots of cotton in my wounds and spots of blood on my clothes.

For what feels like the first time in a long time, I open a dresser and shove my unfolded clothes in. I never bother with them at hotels, but now it feels like I might as well.

Now naked except for my loincloth, I begin to don the Forsworn armor that Listsic gave me. I leave off the headpiece, which is a straight-up deer skull and feels a bit goofy. In fact, all the armor feels a little strange for me to wear, if only because it’s a traditional costume that isn’t mine. If I were going to wear armor for the sake of tradition, it’d be bonemold, not this. 

But it’s the only clothing I have right now. After affixing my gauntlets, I walk out into the blinding brightness of the day.

The Forsworn outside have gathered around Madanach and are chanting in Old Bretic: “Ar roue keur! Ar roue keur! Ar roue keur!”

I don’t know what they’re saying, but it interests me that they can. Old Bretic is a dead language that only scholars understand anymore. The Reach was the last place it was spoken, but it was deliberately stamped out by Nords centuries ago. Given that, whatever they’re saying, it’s probably very deliberate. After a few moments of whatever it is, Madanach interrupts them and begins to speak Nordic. “Listen, my friends! The revolution will now resume! We will start by taking over the guard, as we should have all those years ago, and work our way up to the Jarl himself! We will expel the Nordic rulers and become independent again!” 

“No Nordic rulers!” chants the sea of Forsworn. “No Nordic rulers!” 

Then Madanach turns to me and says, “Vedaryn, follow me!”

The sea turns to look at me. I’m almost afraid for a moment before they begin to chant, “Nord-lazher Vedaryn! Nord-lazher Vedaryn!”

I hurry my way through the waves to Madanach, who takes me into his arms as an almost-protective measure. “What’s lazher mean?” I ask, voice betraying my nerves. 

“Killer.” He turns to the cave behind us and shepards me in. “Now, dearest Vedaryn, begins the planning. I hope you’re equal to the task.”


End file.
